You're Doing It Again
by Santoryuu3
Summary: John Watson is distracted. He had been since Sherlock's suicide 6 years ago. Now, his therapist suggests he take a vacation to America to clear his head, so John and wife Christine head to Las Vegas for a few weeks. While there, Christine is kidnapped, and John knows he can't find her alone. He goes to the police, where their best man is given the case. Who is Mr. S? T to be safe


**So this is a bit different than my usual anime fanfiction focus, but I kind of like expanding my horizons and fandoms a bit. :D This idea came to me practically the minute I finished the Richenbach Fall episode for the first time a few days ago, and I couldn't stop myself from jotting it down (and cursing Moffat for completely crossing the line. First Amy and Rory, and now beloved Sherlock. What the heck am I going to do?). This is my first Sherlock fic, so go easy.**

**Also, I'm not British, I'm American, so I'm not sure about things like the British school system or other customs like that. So if you're British and feel the need to correct me on anything, do let me know. Thanks! :D**

**Anyway, please read, review, and enjoy. :)**

Chapter 1 – An Anniversary to Attend

John Watson was depressed. He always was this time of year. It was plain to anyone with even the intellect of an ant. The bags under his eyes showing lack of sleep, his slow movements, distractedness during work and attempting to cover it with smiles when seeing patients. His once-steady hands now shook like the day he came back from Afghanistan. It was all he could do to find a spare ten minutes in his office to rest his eyes and think.

And that was where he found himself that Friday afternoon, quietly dozing as his lunch hour slowly ticked by, a half-eaten sandwich on a stack of files waiting to be shelved. John blinked as his slumbering mind rose from the depths of dreamland. He rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with a small moan. He'd been up since two that morning doing paperwork, not to mention that his rare post-traumatic war dreams invaded his mind when he had managed to find sleep. The bright midday sun streaming through the window in his office was not helping his vision, either.

His watch beeped, signaling the end of his lunch break. He shook his head, running a weary hand through his hair. No, he couldn't do any more today. His mind was too discombobulated to work, and he was afraid he might do more damage to his patients then good. He stood with a sigh from his chair and straightened his doctor's coat.

"Molly," he said, poking his head out the door.

The brunette looked up from where she had been typing into the computer. She looked at him over her glasses, eyes questioning. "What is it, Dr. Watson?"

"I'm taking the rest of the day off; I'm just out of it today."

Understanding dawned in her eyes as they flicked to the calendar. "Yes. I suppose you're right. I need to cover for you, then?"

"That would be great, thanks."

Molly nodded and returned to her typing. "I'll clock you out. Leave when you're ready."

John nodded his appreciation and slipped back inside his office, sliding his doctor's lab coat from his shoulders and hanging it on the peg just behind the door, slipping his ID inside the pocket. Ten minutes saw the doctor locking the door behind him and shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves as he left.

As he reached for the door handle, Molly's voice drew him back to where she sat at the desk. "John."

He looked over his shoulder, his half-lidded eyes blinking his recognition of her call. "Hm?"

Molly's eyes were sad. "It's the anniversary, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

John's mind quickly grasped the information. "Yes. I know. I'm going later tonight."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

John managed a weak smile. "No, thank you. This is one trip I'd like to take alone."

Slight disappointment flashed in her features. "Okay then. Take care."

"You too."

John's mind was elsewhere as he hailed a taxi and gave him the address for 221B Baker Street. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, John's eyes automatically went to the roof, only returning to look ahead after the car took a turn and the hospital disappeared from sight.

Had it been six years already? He felt like an older man now, even if in his early fifties. The streetlights flashing by, cars honking and kids yelling as loud music blared. It all seemed normal, as normal as things could get on Baker Street. But the one thing he hadn't quite not gotten used to was the absence of constant telephone and doorbell-ringing that were the clients he used to see with a good friend of his.

"Ms. Hudson," John smiled as he passed the older woman on his way up to his flat.

She looked up from her knitting, smiling back. "Oh, John! Is Sherlock back yet? He left another head in the freezer and I need him to take it out."

John nodded, a lump rising in his throat. "Yes, Ms. Hudson. I'll let him know."

"Shall I see you and Christine later for tea, then?"

"No, thank you. Christine and I have a session later."

The woman nodded. "Okay, then. Carry on, you!"

Ms. Hudson's memory was failing her, and she often forgot Sherlock would not be back soon. It was getting more frequent as of late, and Christine was urging him to send her to a home. Dr. Watson couldn't bring himself to do it. He remained in flat 221B because he couldn't just leave the elderly woman alone by herself; she refused to leave, and no matter how much Christine begged her, Ms. Hudson denied any and all propositions of leaving the work for someone else. And he also couldn't leave the place where the best eighteen months of his life took place.

He let himself in to the flat, tossing the keys into the bowl on the table.

_Sherlock lay reclining on the couch, his head suspended upside down from the armrest, a gun hanging loose in his hand. Smoking bullet holes embedded the smiley face painted on the wall. "John, have there been any cases worth working on, yet?" he complained. "I'm bored!"_

John went to the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of milk and pouring himself a tall glass.

"_Your clothes are wrinkled; you wore them yesterday. Obviously didn't get any sleep last night, looking at the bags under your eyes, not to mention the puffiness. Shoes are unshined, pants unironed, and hair uncombed." Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and joined John in the kitchen. "Nose is running, face is full of wrinkles; probably attracted some sort of disease. Only the weak of mind get sick. Everything alright? Of course not, nothing's alright."_

"Be quiet," John muttered, and set the glass down in the sink to be washed. He shrugged off his jacket and made his way into his bedroom, falling promptly onto the soft mattress, not bothering to shred his work clothes.

"_Check the blog again. I'm bored, John. Nothing good comes from boredom."_

"No. The blog's been discontinued, anyway."

"_Fine. I'll confiscate your computer, then."_

"How can you?" John moaned into the duvet. "It's password protected."

"_Simple. You're married now, and knowing you, the password is obviously something that is something important to you. So who is it; me, or Christine?"_

"Shut up…"

"Excuse me?"

John sat up, blinking. His wife slowly shimmered into focus, her head cocked in sight surprise at her husband's outburst. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a low ponytail, the flyaways held back close against her head with pins. Her business casual blouse and skirt fit her slim frame perfectly, matching the black flats on her feet. Her sweater was slung over her shoulder, purse straps tucked in the crook of her elbow. Her lipstick was a bit smudged, probably from coffee.

"Oh, I'm sorry," John laughed off his mistake. "I was talking to myself again. What are you doing home so early?"

Christine dumped her things in the corner. "I should be asking you that, _doctor,"_ she chided. "It's a half day at school for me."

Of course. It was midterm exams this week; students and teachers got half days. "I got the rest of the day off," John explained, patting the spot of mattress beside him for his wife to sit. She took his offer and settled herself on the bed. "I'm going to go down to the cemetery before our session with Ella tonight."

She nodded. "Wear something nice; I'll meet you at Ella's to give you some time alone." Christine's eyes flicked through the room. "I understand why you didn't leave."

"Right," John grunted, standing with slight difficulty. "I might as well head out, then."

Doing as Christine had instructed him, John changed out of his rumpled work clothes and slipped into a better-ironed shirt and slid his favorite jacket over his shoulders. He switched his black pants for slightly more comfortable jeans and quickly swiped his shoes across the carpet and retied them neatly. Christine watched him, one eyebrow slightly raised at her husband's choice of attire, but she didn't say anything about it.

John could feel his wife's eyes following him out of the room. As he walked down the hall, he passed a closed door, and a paused in front of it, debating whether or not to enter. His sanity protesting, John decided to do so and turned the knob, opening the door to reveal the room beyond.

It had been left exactly as Sherlock had left it, if not a bit cleaner to keep away the stench. The bed was still a bit rumpled, but dusted periodically. All disembodied limbs had been thrown out long ago, but long dried bloodstains could be seen on the carpet where bags of thumbs had been lying. Boxes in the corner contained miscellaneous science equipment John had no idea what to do with. He couldn't sell them; no one would know what they were for. A spare change of clothes was strewn across the bedspread, and the drawers in his dresser were still pulled halfway from the structure.

John sighed. He had struggled to keep the room as his friend had left it, having to keep some memory of the Sherlock he knew still alive. There were little to no photos of the great detective in the home, and John felt that if anyone trespassed in the room, it would be an insult.

Before John could collapse in a wave of sorrowful nostalgia, he closed the door and continued out from the flat, past Ms. Hudson still in her chair and out of the door to the curb and hailing a taxi.

It wasn't a long car ride to the cemetery. Only a twenty-minute drive, but made longer on John's insistence that he stop at the local shop and purchase a small bottle of wine and two glasses. The driver waited politely for him, as if he somehow sensed that John was not having a good day and did not need anything else to further busy his mind.

The taxi took the doctor as far as the road would let him, depositing John only a few yards away from the black headstone positioned beneath the huge pine tree. The walk forward for John was like dragging two giant balls of iron tethered to both of his ankles, making them heavy and practically immobile. The grass was slowly turning brown as the colder season slowly began to settle in, and the ground was littered with dead leaves that crunched under each heavy footstep.

John settled himself at the foot of the headstone, the etched words standing out stark against the black:

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

John poured the two glasses of wine, taking a sip from one and leaving the other beside the stone for him. The frame he left last year was still there, he noticed, the one photo Sherlock had allowed him to take of them together just after solving a particularly nasty case involving a butcher who decided he didn't want to just cut up animals anymore. The look on Sherlock's face was one of confidence and slight annoyance, a half smile forming on his lips as his cool and calculating eyes stared into the camera, his dark curly hair framed by a hat Ms. Hudson had bought him a few weeks prior. John himself was smiling widely mid-laugh, his arm around Sherlock's shoulders good-naturedly.

He was a much younger man then. Sometimes John felt like he had aged four hundred years since that case, and his reflection in the obsidian headstone showed it.

"So most of the conspiracies about you have died down," John said to the stone. "Well, they mostly did four years ago, but I suppose I just forgot to say so. Ms. Hudson says to get one of your bloody heads out of the refrigerator; she doesn't want body parts where food is kept."

There was no response.

"Molly got engaged," John continued, sipping his wine and swirling the tangy liquid in his mouth before swallowing. "To some bloke named James. She seems to have a thing with guys names beginning with 'J'. Even though yours doesn't. She offered to come today; but I suppose she'll come on her own later."

John stayed where he sat for a long while, watching the rustling of the trees as wind weaves its way through the thick branches and brushed against the late autumn leaves. Other people came and went to visit their own loved ones, but no one approached him to offer condolences. Even if the fiasco had been filed into the "History" department of people's memories, they still steered clear of patch of earth housing the supposed fake detective. John didn't blame them. _Guilt by association,_ is what he thought people reckoned when they saw him sitting there.

The sun dipped below the tree line, and the shadows began to elongate across the cemetery. John pulled up his sleeve and glanced at his watch. He sighed loudly and stood with a groan, collecting the now-empty wine bottle. "I have a session with Ella later tonight. Actually in about five minutes," he said, rubbing a hand over top Sherlock's gravestone. "So I'm leaving now. Take care, Sherlock, old friend."

As he walked back toward the pavement to hail a passing cab, he suddenly stopped and turned back, staring at the framed photograph, worn slightly by the elements. He smiled lightly, and spoke the same words he always did after visiting.

"You are the most-human human being I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. Got that?"

There was still no response from the grave, as it had been for the last six years. John, without looking back, turned sharp on his heel and strode out toward the exit, mumbling that Christine was going to kill him for being late. Again.

**So…. Is it worth continuing? Let me know in a review, much appreciated! ;D If I do decide to continue, it probably won't come for a while.**

**Coming Up: Chapter 2 – Because Brainy is Bizarre**


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